


When the Sun Goes Out

by sortingthesockbasket



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Drug Abuse, Heavy Angst, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Reichenbach Angst, Reichenbach Feels, except not really
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-14
Updated: 2014-07-14
Packaged: 2018-02-08 21:32:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1956867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sortingthesockbasket/pseuds/sortingthesockbasket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. Sherlock never jumped from the roof. Inspired by a post on tumblr and some extrapolating on said post I threw at my bae. Currently un-betaed. There will be a happy ending and a sad ending both because I am a jerk and I am far too fond of angst for my own good.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When the Sun Goes Out

**Author's Note:**

  * For [holmespluswatson](https://archiveofourown.org/users/holmespluswatson/gifts).



> Not finished yet, and it's a gift fic for my bae, lokithegallifreyanhunterof221b on tumblr, but you know me xD I need my instant gratification for my brain vomit. Also, Pocahontas is not abandoned, promise. I'll be getting back to it soon :3

"John, no!"

"Sherlock."

"Please, John. I need you."

"Goodbye, Sherlock. I love you, too."

Sherlock can't breathe. He watches, frozen in helpless terror, as John casts his phone to the street below and jumps after it. Sherlock's beautiful warrior, his proud, strong sun, is plummeting to earth, leaving the whole world desolate and bleak and grey behind it.

"John!"

It's a visceral cry, horrified and heartbroken and scared, so scared, like a child calling for their mother as the monsters of their nightmares close in on them in the darkness of their bedroom, but this is reality, cold hard reality.

Sherlock's usual grace is gone as he barrels across the street, ears straining for the sickening _smack_ of meat on concrete, like slapping a steak on the counter...and then he hears it. A world-rending crunching _splat_ that shatters Sherlock's heart and destroys him, inside and out, his mind palace imploding without John there to keep it all together, the center of his universe gone and leaving behind it a black hole that pulls everything Sherlock was into it. He can only keep it at bay for as long as it takes for his legs to carry him to John's side, to collapse under him, hands fumbling at John's pulse point, seeking, begging for any sign that he's still alive, praying to every god there is, none of which he believes in, begging them to save John; if they save him, Sherlock will believe, he'll make a pilgrimage to whatever shrine they wish under his own steam, barefoot in a bloody sheet if he has to.

Sherlock can't understand it. Can't believe that John is dead. But John is dead, and there are hands on Sherlock, pulling him away from the dying embers of colour in his world. Without John, the world is bloodless and cold and empty and Sherlock can't do anything but stare as the last sparks of colour flicker and die away.

Sherlock Holmes dies then, dies with John Watson on that cold pavement, and the thing in the shell of him is born of the agony of their passing. There is no life in those icy eyes now, only cold, calculating fury. Sherlock Holmes is dead, and in his place is a demon, a god that cannot be stopped. With John's blood still on him, on his coat and on his hands, the ruthless new Sherlock rises, vengeance and wrath in his eyes. He will destroy the thing that killed John, and then his purpose will be completed and he, too, can die, can join John in whatever afterlife there may be. He almost wishes someone would stop him, because now, Sherlock Holmes will kill anything that stands in his way.

His fists clench at his sides as he stands, tension snapping and crackling in every line of his body like barely-restrained lightning. The crowd parts around him as Sherlock walks away, leaving his aborted heart and soul to die with John's body on the pavement.

He is too sober for this.

Picking up his phone from where he dropped it, he dials a number that never really deleted, and after a quick, terse exchange of words, disappears into the alleys of London. 221B belongs to John, and to the old Sherlock, the one that could feel, the one that loved and died for it. Now, Sherlock is a creature of the city's underbelly, a predator with one purpose and one purpose only.

 

Avenge John.


End file.
